


video phone

by tokyometropolis (mesohorany)



Category: WTFock | Skam (Belgium)
Genre: Dirty Talk, I mean they're in quarantine AWAY FROM EACH OTHER for god's sake, It's 2 am what am I doing, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Now with even more PWP, PWP, Phone Sex, Plot What Plot, Porn with feelings because it's Sobbe and that's their MO, Precum Kink, Riding, Smut, Sneaking Out, oral kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:40:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23324884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mesohorany/pseuds/tokyometropolis
Summary: AKA OH MY GOD, THEY WERE QUARANTINED...except not together, because life is cruel. Thankfully it's 2020 and when Robbe has an...er...intense dream about Sander in the middle of the night, all he has to do is press one button and Facetime him about it. Thing is...sometimes FaceTiming isn’t enough. Title is crack, fic is not.
Relationships: Sander Driesen/Robbe IJzermans
Comments: 38
Kudos: 412





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have this thing where I like to give my PWPs titles from mid-2000s hip hop songs (shoutout to Beyonce and Lady Gaga, and @putainmeuf for encouraging me to go ahead with that crackhead name). This was 100% an excuse for me to write phone sex and alleviate some of the tension from that slow burn angel/demon AU that's going to be the death of me. 
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy.

Sander feels like his life has stopped.  
  
The country has only been shut down for a few days but Sander is so used to pieces of Robbe filling his waking hours that those _few days_ might well have been a century. To keep himself from spiraling he’s been living within the pages of his sketchbook, redefining his strange new dimensions with ink and paint and color, awake until all hours of the night, snatching finicky dream-laden sleep when he can throughout the day. He’s anxious and the only person who can keep him from exploding out of himself cannot be with him. Without Robbe, everything is dismal.  
  
But every day, despite the physical limitations, Robbe is there, texting him as soon as he wakes up, calling so they can simply exist together, their only available connection soaring across wires and air, invisible. Robbe sends songs and Sander sends drawings, and when they FaceTime - which, after about a day and a half of constant texting and calling and Snapchatting, Robbe suggests they use as their primary means of communication - all Sander does is smile.  
  
It’s maybe the seventh day - Sander doesn’t know, with such a complete lack of daily structure he’s quickly become vampiric and hermit-like, unaware of such trivial constructs like hours and minutes except in the context of _time until he sees Robbe again_ \- when his phone lights up at two-thirty am.  
  
It takes him a second to notice; he’s in deep focus over a sketch of Robbe’s side profile, the precise way his throat merges with his jawline, and it’s giving him trouble. The way Sander reaches for his phone is absentminded; Robbe had fallen asleep several hours prior and it’s not often that he wakes up in the middle of the night, so Sander figures it’s social media or maybe another dreaded push notification from the news. He’s far past the point of exhaustion when it comes to skimming the headlines; now he lets his mother tell him what he needs to know so he can avoid the incessant barrage of misery, so he can keep himself grounded.  
  
It’s not social media, and it’s not the news. It’s a Snapchat from Robbe, on his side in bed with the camera flash flooding the pitch of his room, eyes closed as he smiles. The picture simply says,  
  
_sander please tell me you’re awake_  
  
Sander sends him an abstract photo of his free hand, ink-darkened resting next to the pencil on his sketch pad. _Always. It’s creative hours, babe._  
  
Robbe replies instantly, a shot of his face half-covered with one hand, protection from the light. He looks tired but he’s that soft kind of beautiful that Sander adores and the sight of Robbe so sweet and sleepy makes everything within him go soft.  
  
_Had a dream about you. Can’t go back to sleep_  
  
Sander’s interest is piqued. He pushes back from his desk, thatches a hand back through his hair, opens their text thread.  
  
_Must have been some dream_ 😉  
  
Robbe’s typing instantly; while he waits for him to reply Sander flicks pencil shavings from the surface of his desk, adrenaline spiking, his head already going places it shouldn’t. It takes Robbe so long Sander thinks maybe he fell back to sleep mid-sentence but at last the text comes through and when Sander reads what Robbe’s written he almost tips sideways off his chair.  
  
_yeah it was some dream. It was almost a fucking WET dream_.  
  
The ripple of arousal that crashes through Sander’s body is as instantaneous and sharp as a switch-flip; his toes curl automatically and his breath rushes in as he stares at the screen, ruined. Robbe has this effect on him: his body just wants and wants and wants and sometimes it’s so inconvenient because he doesn’t know how to tame himself. They haven’t fucked around much yet during this quarantine, just the occasional mildly inappropriate picture of Robbe fresh and water-pearled from the shower or Sander lying in bed wearing just a sheet, but their dominant mutual emotion thus far has been frustration mixed with _sadness_ because all they want is to be near one another and they _can’t_. But now, when there’s no one else awake to interrupt them, when the complicit trickster darkness can throw a veil over everything they might do, Sander suddenly remembers exactly how long it’s been since they’ve gotten off together. Sander thinks of Robbe’s perfect lissome thighs circled around his hips and the wet circle of Robbe’s mouth as he parts his lips for Sander’s kiss and shivers. He’s hard and he wants Robbe to know.  
  
_Robbe_  
  
_Jesus_  
  
_Tell me_  
  
Just like that Robbe is calling him, requesting to FaceTime, and Sander’s stomach drops like a thrill ride, warm anticipation. He swipes at his hair so it lays flat to the side, answers, and when he speaks his voice is sandpaper.  
  
“Hey.”  
  
From the dimness of his room, lit only by a sole string of white lights tacked up around the perimeter, Robbe gives a quick vulpine grin.  
  
“Hey. Thank God you never sleep.”  
  
“I’d wake up eleven out of ten times for a text like _that_ ,” says Sander, and he raises his dark eyebrows. “Your dream was that good, huh?”  
  
“Mmmm.” Robbe rolls his neck, stretches, baring his throat where the bitemark Sander had left just a few short days ago still shines. Sander can practically taste the need in him through the screen and he digs his teeth into his lower lip to stop from growling aloud. “It was...definitely something.”  
  
Sander inhales. “Yeah? Did you wake up hard?”  
  
Robbe smirks.  
  
“Uh. Yeah. Actually,” he says, looking away from the camera for a second while like a hunting cat Sander follows his every tiny movement, “I woke up wet.”  
  
He holds one finger up in front of the screen; Sander can see the shiny streak of wetness across Robbe's skin and this time he can’t stop himself from whining aloud. Robbe knows, too well by now, how it drives Sander to lunacy when he starts dripping precum, how Sander loves to reach into his shorts and find the head of his cock slick and twitching, front of his underwear soaked through. The way Robbe leaks for him is _indecent_ and Sander has passed many a minute with his face between Robbe’s legs, pinning Robbe’s muscular hips to the bed while he laps his tongue over and over to and fro over the slit of Robbe’s cock until he is pleading _for fuck’s sake Sander let me cum_.  
  
Sometimes Sander takes pity on him, swallows him down right away, merciful. Other times he continues to tease until Robbe is borderline, bucking up off the bed, practically sobbing from need.  
  
“But you didn’t come?”  
  
“No,” says Robbe, shaking his russet head with sudden bashfulness rising in his eyes. “It hasn’t been _that_ long, give me some credit. But I - I woke up and wanted to wait for you.”  
  
Sander smiles; he loves Robbe like this. Always looking back over his shoulder to see if Sander is with him, always making sure that Sander is around for the best things, so they can experience them together.  
  
“You’re fucking beautiful, Robbe.”  
  
“You are,” says Robbe, and when he bites his lip he looks so gorgeous Sander can’t think. “It was us in front of the bathroom mirror. You bending me over the sink breathing against the back of my neck. That was my dream.”  
  
Sander shuts his eyes. The nape of Robbe’s neck is his sweet spot, the place Sander hovers and licks and murmurs when he wants to see gooseflesh prickle all over Robbe’s amber-olive skin.  
  
“Fuck,” he says out loud. “Can we do that for real?”  
  
Robbe’s laugh is strangled. “The fucking _second_ this quarantine is lifted.”  
  
“I don’t think I can wait.”  
  
“Me either,” says Robbe frankly. “I wanna sit down on it.”  
  
Sander chokes.  
  
“You - what?”  
  
“You heard me,” says Robbe, and when he blows out a soft exhale Sander knows intuitively that he’s touching himself.  
  
The thought of it makes Sander feral. The closest they’ve ever gotten to voyeurism is lying next to each other on Robbe’s bed, Robbe’s thigh thrown over Sander’s hips, making out with increased freneticism until finally out of sheer desperation Sander had reached between them and unzipped his jeans. Robbe had drawn back, licked across Sander’s swollen mouth, watched with black-hole pupils as Sander, not looking away from Robbe’s face, had rubbed out that first dizzying stroke. For a moment Robbe had simply watched him spellbound and then he’d done the same, knuckles periodically brushing Sander’s own as they jerked off together, sighing raggedly into each other’s dropped-open mouths. Eventually Robbe had knocked Sander’s wrist aside and taken Sander’s cock, hot and straining against his own, in his hand; it had been one of the most intimate moments of either of their lives and Sander still remembers how Robbe had felt against him as he’d gasped and shuddered through his orgasm, open, open, _open_.  
  
Now through his shorts Sander runs a hand over his cock and grits his teeth for the surge of sensation, blood pulsing.  
  
“You can sit down on it,” he breathes, and Robbe’s grin goes unholy, “if I can fuck you up against the wall.”  
  
Far back in his throat, almost a purr, Robbe rumbles.  
  
“Let me see you,” he commands, and who is Sander to tell him no because Robbe owns him, whatever he wants, Sander will give. He flips the camera, settles the focus on where his hand has disappeared down the waistband of his shorts.  
  
Robbe hisses.  
  
“Fuck, Sander.”  
  
Sander smirks for his reaction, flicks his thumb over the damp head of his cock and squirms when the resulting twitch shocks through him. Robbe’s eyes on the screen are the color of three am, liquid lust.  
  
“So that’s a yes? I can fuck you against the wall?”  
  
Robbe growls and then he’s flipping the camera and Sander can see down his perfect muscle-striped body, the indentations of his abdomen, the thighs that Sander loves to sink his teeth into. He’s not wearing a single thing aside from the medallion trickling down his chest and he’s so hard it looks like he’s in _pain_ and just for the sight of him Sander’s mouth starts pouring saliva. Robbe says,  
  
“You can fuck me wherever you want,”  
  
And when he runs a fist up the length of his swollen cock Sander can hear the distinct muted sucking noise that means Robbe’s skin is soaked. He swears, can’t help himself.  
  
“Fucking Jesus, Robbe, did you use lube?”  
  
“No,” says Robbe, and within his voice there are layers of triumph, heavy satisfaction. “It’s just me.”  
  
Sander gets up from his chair, discards his shorts on the three-step walk to the bed. Falls atop it and splays out and opens his thighs, aiming the camera so Robbe can see all of him.  
  
“I’ll fuck you here,” he says, teeth clenched batting at his cock so it slaps heavy back against his belly with an audible smack, “but I wanna lick that precum off you first.”  
  
Whining, Robbe wriggles down into the mattress; even in the muted light, so disagreeable for clarity, Sander can see how his slit is dripping, how slick his palm. He realizes he’s biting habitually down on the inner bit of his lower lip and ceases before he breaks skin. After a moment in which they just watch each other enraptured Robbe grits out,  
  
“You gonna fucking tease me until I die again?”  
  
“I don’t hear you complaining,” says Sander, sucking in a sharp whistling breath as he thinks of Robbe’s taste, salt and faint musk under his tongue. “Think you kinda like it.”  
  
“I like it when you let me come in your mouth and swallow all of it,” growls Robbe, and Sander’s eyes roll back for that because as much as Robbe loves having Sander’s cock buried inch by inch inside of him Sander loves the feeling of Robbe’s cockhead rubbing against the back of his throat. He gets off on oral, loves the feeling of control, giving and taking away as he so pleases. But most of all he loves driving Robbe insane because the way he says Sander’s name - like repentance, like _worship_ \- in the midst of ecstasy is the most entrancing sound Sander has ever heard.  
  
They’re both jerking off in earnest now and Sander would be ashamed for how his nerve endings are already lighting up were it not for the soft breathy mewls that spill occasionally from Robbe’s mouth: those tattletale noises mean he won’t last, he’s been riled up for ages by his traitor dreams. Robbe’s hand around his cock is sure and fast and on the upstroke he always runs his thumb over the head; the stimulation in that most sensitive of places makes the muscles of his abdomen twitch and Sander is salivating, captivated, so turned on he’s senseless. In a voice that’s more rasp than anything else he says,  
  
“Did I let you come down my throat in your dream?”  
  
Robbe chuckles.  
  
“Asleep, no. Awake, every day, since I was with you last? Yes.”  
  
Sander swears again; his own slit is leaking too now and the lubrication makes the rhythm of his hand move that much more smoothly and when Robbe moans, once, involuntarily, Sander feels his stomach start to shudder.  
  
“Want you up against that bathroom sink, Ijzermans.”  
  
“Yeah?” Robbe’s voice is all strain and grit; it’s at this point, when Sander is in him to the hilt, dizzier and dizzier with every thrust back into Robbe’s warm butter-smooth tightness, that he starts begging _harder, fuck me harder_. “So you can do what to me, Driesen?”  
  
They do this sometimes now, bring out the last names; it still amazes Sander that this is the same shy boy who scolded him apprehensively for breaking into the pool, who on their beach house grocery run wanted to follow Amber’s supply list to the letter.  
  
“Wanna be inside you,” Sander groans, and he’s close now, thinking of Robbe’s tongue in his mouth, the way he moans like a slut when Sander slides his cock deep inside of him. “Wanna fuck you so hard you can’t even think to tell me _harder_.”  
  
Robbe gives a broken little choking moan and just like that he’s coming, thick milky fluid daubing all over his hand and across the tautness of his lower stomach, and when he sighs out Sander’s name that’s all it takes for Sander to explode too, writhing as he spits _Robbe Robbe Robbe_ into the dark, all lighting-struck nerve endings and whited edges. Robbe’s breath is unsteady and harsh but he is laughing, low and joyful, and in that moment Sander cannot bear how much he loves him.  
  
He says so, and Robbe turns the camera back on his face, moon-eyed, beaming.  
  
“I love you, too. I wish you were here, Sander.”  
  
“Be careful what you wish for,” says Sander, and he quirks his eyebrows, trademark. Robbe shakes his head.  
  
“If only.”  
  
“Hey now,” says Sander, and smirks like a fiend. “We both know what I’m capable of, eh? Sneaking out during quarantine should be no big deal after everything else.”  
  
He’s only half-joking and Robbe knows it; his eyes go fond and stern at the same time.  
  
“Don’t even think about it, Driesen. No way I’m letting you get in trouble for me. If we start doing this a few times a week I think we can make it through without going through _too_ much hell.”  
  
“Hmmm.” Sander pokes out his fat lower lip, all pout, the kind he knows gets Robbe every time. “How about every night?”  
  
Robbe smiles.  
  
“Deal.”  
  
After they clean themselves up Sander turns his lights out, climbs back into bed, luxuriating in the elusive pleasant exhaustion settling warm into the framework of his bones. For the first time since mandatory quarantine forced him apart from the love of his life he falls asleep before six am, bewitched by the sound of Robbe’s voice as he talks about every and anything, and when he wakes up he feels more rested than he has in days.  
  
Maybe Robbe will be more open to the idea of Sander sneaking over to his house if he asks about it again that night. Experience has led him to the firm conclusion that Robbe has a difficult time refusing when he’s so turned on he can’t recall how to say anything but various inventive swear words and Sander’s name on repeat.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys didn't actually think I was gonna let Sander get away with all that talk about sneaking out and not have him do something about it, right? ;)

“You’re ruining my sleep schedule.”

Two nights later, two am sliding past like it’s nothing on Robbe’s wall clock, they’re flopped out on their respective beds, each descending at their leisure from that unmatched climax high. Three consecutive early mornings they’ve been doing this but even now, with the sticky product of a fresh orgasm cooling uncomfortably on his stomach, Robbe can’t wait to do it again. He likes to watch Sander’s face as he’s describing what he’ll do when they’re finally allowed, likes the way Sander shuts his eyes and growls when he’s brought to the brink by Robbe’s words.

On his phone screen Sander grins in luxuriant satisfaction.

“Am I supposed to be sorry about that, or...”

“Jackass,” says Robbe with affection. “You could at least pretend to be sad about my sleep deprivation.”

“Poor baby,” says Sander, that fond mocking pout on his mouth, eyes laughing. “I _am_ sorry you’re tired. But you could sleep more during the day if you _really_ wanted to.”

“You act like schoolwork doesn’t exist,” bemoans Robbe. “I still have to get it done. Physics won’t stop for something like a stupid virus.”

“I’m sure physics can stop long enough for you take a nap every once in a while,” says Sander, and he winks. “Did you take your temperature today?”

“Ninety eight point seven,” says Robbe. “Twice. And you?”

“Three times,” says Sander. He looks down at himself, winces. “And three times, it was perfect. I’m gonna clean up. I’ll take you with me, hold on.”

“Twenty seconds,” reminds Robbe, and Sander laughs.

“ _I Will Survive_.”

Later, as content as they can be without the other physically present, they drop slow into sleep speaking of nothing and everything, the tones of their voices pitched and lilting as though they’re reading love poetry. It’s wonderful, and it’s placating, but it’s still not enough; Robbe dreams every night of Sander’s warmth curled like a familiar blanket around him.

*

On Thursday afternoon Sander has a virtual appointment with his psychologist. Robbe knows he’s not incredibly fond of the idea — Sander already suffers from mild apprehension regarding his in-person visits — so he does his best to keep Sander’s mood in the corner of optimism, sends him quarantine memes and a picture of the pancakes he makes for breakfast, on the top layer of which he draws a smiley face using strawberries, whipped cream, and chocolate chips.

_You’re ridiculous_ , Sander says to this, and then, _make me some? 😘_ and Robbe with a thrill of warm pride knows he has succeeded. _  
_

After Sander’s appointment he seems happy, relaxed; in reply to Robbe’s inquiry of _how did it go_ he says:

_I miss you. Can’t we just meet up once?_

and Robbe’s heart _explodes_ from frustration, all those layers and layers of yearning. He means it with everything inside of him when he replies

_miss you too_ ❤️

_there’s nothing I want more_

and it causes him almost physical pain to add _but you know we can’t_ to the end of his sentence because he _wants_ to be irresponsible, wants Sander with his loud contagious passion and starlit smile invading Robbe’s space like one of Bowie’s moonage daydreams. After such an impossible precarious beginning, those long soulless days in which Robbe couldn’t remember what it felt like to be okay, he’d relaxed into how blissful and incredible it was with Sander, how he looked so forward to waking up in the morning to see him. They’d barely had four months together when the entire world had shrieked to a merciless, terrifying, unexpected halt and Robbe feels like he’s standing on a bridge made of cracked glass. Everything in his life is uncertain except _Sander._

Sander replies

_Aaaaargh_

And then he says _  
_

_At least I can take you on my walks with me_ 😉

And Robbe barely has time to ask questions before a video pops up on his screen. He presses play in less time than it takes for his heart to beat again.

It’s Sander, all cloudfluff havoc hair and sprite-green eyes, the look on his face somehow managing to be impish and pure at once. He’s smiling, walking outside with the wind teasing around his face, and Robbe is socked by how much he misses him, no longer just a low humming ache somewhere in the vicinity of his chest cavity but an actual woundlike _pain._ Sander is so beautiful it’s like he’s from another world and Robbe wants to lick between his lips, feel the resulting sigh pour from Sander’s throat to his own.

“Welcome to part one of the lockdown walks,” says Sander on screen, in that bass-deep voice that Robbe feels in his stomach. “Today we’re standing next to the best known contemporary piece of art in the world.”

He turns around and the camera spins with him and when Robbe gets a look at his new background he sucks in a furious breath: Sander is standing next to the mural, _his_ mural, and the sight of his own face in such artful vivid splashes of color next to Sander’s own bright, slightly bashful countenance makes him _ache_. Sander calls Robbe the most beautiful man in the world, starts scolding COVID-19 for breaking them apart, and as Robbe is laughing at his sudden adorable intensity he goes quiet, brings the camera closer to his face, blushes like a peony.

“I miss you,” he says quietly, and then the video stops.

Robbe can’t formulate coherent sentences; his stream of consciousness sounds a lot like _fkfkfkfkdkdkddkdjdjfj_ and feels a lot like _heart eyes_ and all he can manage as he shakes his head, warm all over, is

_hahaha, silly._

_Didn’t you think it was beautiful?_

_I did. Very cute._

Sander sends him a Bowie quote and Robbe responds with a kiss face, still surprised and touched into temporary partial incongruity, but when he gathers himself he says,

_Fuck this virus. I miss you so much._

And Sander replies,

_I miss you too. More than you know._

*

Friday dawns long, slow, washed over with lasting gray rain. Sander sleeps late but Robbe wakes early, hopeful that several cups of bitter-strong black coffee and the quiet hour will force him into concentration. When his mother begins her day, comes to peek into his room with a plate of buttered toast and a little smile, he realizes he’s been working for two hours without pause.

By eleven he’s worn out; by twelve, he’s asleep again, and he doesn’t reopen his eyes until mid-afternoon. Sander has texted him _good morning sunshine_ but when he replies it’s ages before Sander answers and his tone seems subdued, abstract. Robbe feels the beginnings of worry gripping his chest and tries not to do that thing where he’s overbearing, avoids asking _did you take your meds, are you feeling okay_ even though Sander never fails to call Robbe an angel when he checks up on him.

Just for something to do, just to avoid overthinking everything, Robbe buries himself in his homework once more. Where Sander excels with lines and colors and visual expression, Robbe finds comfort in the stability of a mathematical equation, how no matter what he can always solve for _x._ Sander, who loathes math with every particle of his being, is so always fascinated watching him work, doesn’t understand how all those numbers and letters make sense in his head, but Robbe knows there’s nothing to math but memorization and he laughs it humbly off when Sander expresses admiration. True creativity, Robbe knows, is far more valuable than the slope of a straight line.

He gets caught up, works ahead so he can relax for the next few days. Talks to Sander sporadically throughout the afternoon, their conversation dwindling into the evening, and when at last he caves and says

_Are you okay? You’re quiet_

Sander texts back instantly.

_Sorry! I’m fine, just drawing_ _and in the zone ❤️ don’t worry_

Robbe feels stupid for thinking too much into it.He makes dinner with his mama — chicken parmesan, because it’s his night to choose; the previous evening she’d picked some kind of too-green vegetable casserole that had reminded him strongly of Zoë would have made on her health food kick — watches a movie with her after they eat, and when he goes back to his bedroom to shut in for the night he’s only thinking about the little routine he and Sander have developed. They’d skipped the previous night and he’s already itching for it, all the isolation making him feel like he’s too much for his own skin, Sander the singular outlet he craves.

But when he opens his phone Sander‘s text disappoints him.

_I’m falling asleep already. you’ve been keeping me up too late, Ijzermans, shame on you_

_I love you 😘 have a good movie night with your mom_

Robbe sends him a hasty heart-led _Sander nooooo_ but where Sander’s picture usually appears instantly at the bottom of the screen to indicate that he’s read Robbe’s message there is nothing and Robbe has to conclude that Sander has already fallen asleep. He huffs out his frustration, throws himself belly-up onto his bed, rubs his palms roughly over his face. Debates jerking off, decides against it; he wants Sander there to watch him, coax him through it, and already he knows it won’t be quite the same without the lovely incentive of Sander’s baritone voice thrumming under Robbe’s skin.

With his options savagely restricted, he texts Jens to play a video game, and they pass the next hour bellowing in a good-natured sort of way at each other until Jens, at the insistence of his mother, signs off to go participate in a round of cards with his family. After Jens disappears Robbe stares at his monitor without seeing it for half a moment before he, too, decides he’s had enough.

He pushes back from his desk, wanders idly over to the window, still freckled lightly by precipitation. It’s the kind of rain that’s uncertain, finicky, noncommittal; the sky hasn’t yet made up its mind about whether it wants to weep or trickle, cloud cover constantly shifting to show patches of sky, reveal the nearly full moon. Robbe hates the inconsistency, finds himself wishing for a storm. In the glass his blurred reflection is black-eyed and tired, corners of his mouth slicing down, fringe a desultory whirl across one side of his forehead. His hair is getting so long he keeps having to puff it with a breath out of his eyes and habitually he scrapes it back to clear his face as he peruses the empty world outside of his home bubble.

He misses Sander.

He’s just reaching for his phone to tell him so, get sappy and cute and long-winded over WhatsApp so Sander has something cheerful to wake up to, when it lights up on the table.

_Still awake?_

The adrenaline rush of seeing Sander’s name pop up in his notifications has not abated in the slightest since they’ve started dating and Robbe sinks into it now, lets serotonin bathe his struggling brain as he replies.

_Of course. You left me high and dry, asshole 😘_

_Did I?_

Robbe grins.

_Uh yeah, you fell asleep before midnight. We don’t even start fucking around until at least one._

_Haha, true 😈_

Pause.

_Are you still up for it tonight then?_

Already Robbe is half hard for the thought; he texts back so quickly he has to correct several typos before his response is intelligible.

_What do you think?_

The second Robbe’s message registers as _read_ Sander is typing. _  
_

_I’ll take that as a yes then. Do me a favor first?_

Robbe can only guess where Sander might go with this and all the conjecture does is thrill him.

_What?_

Sander sends him a photo. It’s the grey-black sky, all deep and frosted with diaphanous clouds,. _  
_

_Go outside and look at the moon with me._

Instinctively Robbe checks the time; it’s nearly twelve thirty and he knows he won’t get caught, his mama has been in bed for ages. Since lockdown began he hasn’t been outside except to go to the grocery store or the pharmacy and suddenly the only thing he wants to do is inhale the dark night air. He glances skeptically at his window before he replies.

_Can you even see the moon right now?_

_Yes. It’s amazing. I thought it would be cool to pretend like we’re stargazing together for a second ❤️😩_

Robbe smiles.

_Five seconds, Galileo._

He yanks at the hoodie hanging haphazardly over the back of his desk chair, throws it on as he steps, socks and all, into his house shoes. Then he grabs his phone and his keys and steals out of the silent apartment into the fifth-floor hallway.

As he’d fully anticipated Robbe doesn’t encounter a single other person on his quick race down the stairwell. When he bursts out onto the street he shivers automatically for the temperature drop; it’s not quite cold, but the first fleck of rain on his face coaxes gooseflesh along the entire length of his spine. He shoves his free hand into his hoodie pocket, raises his eyes to the sky to find the moon; his attention is wholly spent on celestial bodies and that’s why he doesn’t notice immediately that he is no longer alone.

“Told you it was amazing.”

For a heart attack of a second Robbe goes into full flight-or-fight mode, startled, petrified. Then he looks round and his eyes find Sander, leaning against the exterior wall of Robbe’s apartment building, an alarmingly purple umbrella held in place over that distinct fluff of bright moonbeam hair. The look on his face is equal parts jubilant and querulous and Robbe understands immediately, innately, that Sander is worried that Robbe will be angry with him for showing up unannounced. _  
_

Robbe does not hesitate. He launches himself at Sander with such enthusiasm that Sander, unprepared, loses his grip on the umbrella; it clatters wetly to the ground and Robbe walks him back into the brick and kisses him like he’s starved for it. Sander tastes like rain and joy and Robbe could cry for how much he’s missed him.

“You idiot,” he hisses against Sander’s mouth, laughing; he means _I love you_ and they both know it. “This isn’t _safe_.”

“I was safe, I promise,” says Sander, his massive hands coming up to clutch in Robbe’s overgrown hair. “I rode my bike straight here and I didn’t see a single person. I even wore my mask, look.”

He disentangles himself slightly to dig in the pocket of his rain jacket and produces a standard-looking face mask for Robbe’s examination. Robbe doesn’t even look at it, can’t see anything but the transformative green of Sander’s eyes, the excited beaming grin that splits across his perfect symmetrical face.

“Sander fucking Driesen,” says Robbe, and there’s maybe more to that sentence but he’s shaking his head and giggling and Sander ducks in and nuzzles his forehead over Robbe’s own before he can speak again.

“You’re not mad?”

Robbe scoffs.

“I’m only mad that you didn’t ignore my whole _you know we can’t hang out_ shit sooner. You — ” Robbe nibbles at Sander’s lower lip, sighs. “Sander, I missed you so fucking much.”

“I missed you too,” says Sander in that low snake-charm chant of a voice. “I couldn’t wait any longer to see you, I had to come. I’ve been planning it all day.”

“That’s why you were quiet,” says Robbe, and Sander spins him around, hooks an arm across his chest, draws him in so Robbe’s back is flush to his front. He stamps a kiss to the center of Robbe’s nape, the side of his jaw; nips at his earring. The piercing is still fresh enough to be sensitive and Robbe sucks in a breath for the touch.

“Yeah,” says Sander, low devilish in Robbe’s ear. “I was trying not to give myself away. Didn’t want you to suspect anything. Did it work?”

“Too well,” says Robbe, turning his head to look Sander in the eye. “I was worried about you.”

Sander smiles for his concern. “I’m fine, Robbe. I’m doing a lot better, promise.” He kisses the tip of Robbe’s nose, scratches a gentle hand up through the chaos of his russet curls. “Your hair is so long now, fuck.”

“I know.” Robbe rolls his eyes, flops his head back onto Sander’s shoulder. “It’s so annoying. I can’t see.”

“It’s hot,” says Sander, warm murmuring breath against the marble silk of Robbe’s neck. His teeth scrape gently at the chain of Robbe’s necklace, warm from absorbing the temperature of his skin. “Quarantine hasn’t touched you at all, you look amazing.”

“And you,” says Robbe, soft. Contentedly he burrows back into Sander’s heat, involuntary purr in the back of his throat, and he can feel the way Sander shudders. Something about wrapping Robbe up from behind gets Sander at his core; he loves to be the big spoon even when he’s the one in need of comfort, loves to stand behind Robbe and hold him close, not a millimeter of space between them as they rock gently to and fro together in comfortable quiet. Love turning Robbe around and pinning his hands on either side of his head and fucking him until they’re both gasping, boneless.

“Me? No way, I’m getting roots. Gonna have to bleach my hair myself before this quarantine shit ends. Fucking tragedy,” says Sander, but his voice is light, holds no trace of annoyance. He takes Robbe’s hand, points it at the sky, traces a fingertip path around the uneven moon. “Unless you want to help me.”

“Oh, I see,” says Robbe, grinning. “That’s the _real_ reason you snuck out to see me. You want me to help make you pretty again.”

“Excuse me, I already know you think I’m beautiful, thanks very much,” says Sander, biting gently at Robbe’s earlobe; when Robbe gasps once again in response he growls, can’t help himself. “Jesus. I’ll never get over this earring.”

Even as Robbe feels himself losing his breath for Sander’s mouth he smirks. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” says Sander with feeling, and very purposely he shifts forward so Robbe can feel him, how hard he already is. Whatever chill was left in the rainy air dissipates with the fervent want that spirals through Robbe’s entire being and he turns his head, catches Sander’s hazy gaze.

“Fuck.”

“I think I remember you saying that you were still up for it,” says Sander, voice a husk as he leans in to lap his tongue once across Robbe’s lips. “That true?”

When he pulls back Robbe whines; Sander is always leaving him asking for a kiss he waits ages to give, hovering with his mouth slightly open inches away just before he retreats so Robbe has no choice but to beg for more.

“You know it is,” says Robbe, and Sander unbraids one hand from his hair, tracks it slow, slow, slow down Robbe’s chest, his trembling abdomen, until he’s pawing lazily at the waistband of Robbe’s sweatpants. Loops his index finger through the undone drawstring and tips his chin so his top lip presses lightly to Robbe’s own. Robbe forgets to breathe.

“Do I.” Sander’s grinning, fiendish. “Let’s find out.”

With agonizing leisure he slides his hand into Robbe’s waistband, tracks his fingers over the warm panel of Robbe’s skin. Robbe is paralyzed, watching Sander’s eyes, his mouth, and when Sander finds his swollen cock, gets a hand around it through the thin fabric of his boxers, they both groan aloud.

“Told you,” says Robbe, teasing, voice strained, and at last Sander kisses him open and hot on the lips. At the same time he rubs the pad of his thumb over Robbe’s cockhead where it’s poking out of the front flap of his underwear; already he’s damp at the slit, pulsing in response to the flick of Sander’s fingertip, and when Robbe sighs and pushes his hips up into Sander’s palm he is ruined.

“Robbe, _Jesus_.”

“I think we’ve done enough stargazing for the night,” says Robbe pointedly, and Sander removes his hand, sucks that thumb wet with fluid into his mouth without dropping eye contact. Just below his breath Robbe swears and Sander’s smirk is hot, needy.

“You better invite me in, then.”

Without hesitation Robbe grabs Sander’s wrist, whirls on his heel; wrongfooted, Sander almost topples over trying to retrieve his umbrella from where it’s been tossed aside. Once he gets it properly closed Robbe marches them back to the side entrance so he can let them into the stairwell, where up the arduous five flights they clatter, laughing for their own clumsy noise. It doesn’t make sense to Sander how they can shut up long enough to tiptoe their way into Robbe’s room from his foyer but they _do_ and the second that bedroom door clicks closed Robbe is on him again. Ripping at the zipper of Sander’s rain jacket, helping him push the sleeves over his shoulders and down, fingers scrambling for the hem of Sander’s sweatshirt before his coat and backpack even hit the floor, and Sander is grateful that he remembered to wear sneakers that can easily be kicked off, no interruption to the action this time. He’s barely stepped out of them when Robbe’s already shoving him purposely back towards the bed.

He loves this, loves when Robbe lets himself be led by hunger and instinct, and when they tumble atop the mattress together he sits up immediately so he can get his fingertips up under Robbe’s hem and rid him of both his hoodie and t-shirt in one go. Robbe helps him, emerges from the fabric looking animal-eyed and determined.

“Been thinking about this for ages.”

“Me too,” says Sander roughly. He kisses along Robbe’s collarbone, licks him, get his teeth in so Robbe yelps aloud, scrapes his fingernails down Sander’s forearm. “Driving me fucking crazy talking about _you wanna sit down on it_.”

Robbe chuckles far back in his throat, fists one hand in the cloud-white thatch of Sander’s hair. “Yeah, well, I drive _myself_ crazy thinking about that. And you behind me at the bathroom sink, fuck.”

Sander rolls his head on his neck, groans. “I’ve always wanted to fuck you in front of a mirror. Then you can see how perfect your face looks when I put it in you.”

The noise Robbe makes is _inhuman_. “ _Sander_.”

“What.” Sander pulls him down into his lap, Robbe’s thighs nestling automatically on either side of Sander’s hips, works the heel of his palm over Robbe’s hard-on so he drops his chestnut head back and exhales aloud. “I want you to see yourself. You’re so beautiful, Robbe.”

“You are,” insists Robbe, and then he gets to his knees so he can yank his sweatpants down over his waist, kick them off, haste making him graceless. In the muted lamplit softness of the room he’s golden and stunning and very clearly _iron_ hard and Sander can’t stop himself. He bends to circle his tongue once, viciously slow, around the head of Robbe’s twitching cock, mild bitter salt of him so thick and familiar. Opens his mouth and draws him in deep and hollows his cheeks as he sucks, and when Robbe chokes a moan Sander pops off the tip like a lollipop and tilts his head up and grins.

“Did you want me to — what was it you said — _tease you until you fucking die_ again?”

“Actually,” says Robbe, and his voice is so strong Sander senses he’d expected the question. “I have another idea.”

He reaches between them, gets Sander’s zipper down, wrestles with his button (“why did you have to wear _jeans,_ it’s _quarantine,_ be a bum,” as Sander laughs at him). Waits observing while Sander peels his jeans down, tongue pressed to the center of his top lip, feral. When Sander is naked Robbe lowers himself once more into the direct center of Sander’s lap, and that first hot sharp brush of friction is enough to make them both hiss in seething unplanned harmony. Robbe takes them both in one hand, spreads that copious flow of precum down the length of first his own cock, then Sander’s, and when they’re each sufficiently lubricated he starts jacking them together, slow, staring with heated intent dead into Sander’s lust-doped eyes. Dazed, Sander blinks, helpless moan warbling from his open mouth.

“Robbe...”

“Yeah,” says Robbe, raspy, and then they’re kissing, Robbe’s tongue sliding slick between Sander’s lips so he can taste him like he’s needed to for days. Until Sander is panting harshly into his mouth he increases the velocity of his stroke, careful to pace himself, because if they’re going to do what he wants them to do he’s got to make this last. The problem is he could go forever; the problem is he’s been waiting so long to feel Sander’s skin against his own that he can’t see how he’ll ever be able to stop, working the pulsing ache of his cock against Sander’s own until they’re both crying out in simultaneous climax. For a dangerous moment he loses himself to it, the sure motion of his wrist, and he can tell that Sander is pouring precum now too, their combined wetness making it so easy to go faster and faster and —

Sander _sobs_ out a moan into the sweat-hot side of Robbe’s neck, the ruptured depth of his voice a sure signal that he is close; it’s enough to bring Robbe back to himself and against all of that furious instinct he checks his pace. His palm is _soaked_.

Through dizzy neon eyes Sander looks up at him; Robbe kisses him so heavily they’re both knocked askew. When Sander speaks he sounds decimated.

“What’s your plan?”

Robbe grins.

“That first night,” he says. “You asked me if I’d used lube on myself, and I said no, it was just me.”

Sander narrows his eyes, uncomprehending. “Yeah...”

“Driesen,” says Robbe, commanding drawl as he leans down and breathes hot into the shell of Sander’s ear, “the plan is for you to use me as lube.”

Then he takes Sander’s hand, slides his big palm over his own weeping slit, grits his teeth for the sensitivity as he watches Sander’s face.

Sander looks at him, looks down at where he’s still stroking absently over the head of Robbe’s cock. When the understanding arises it strikes him like lightning.

“Fuck,” he says, rusty. And then, for good measure, “ _Jesus_ fuck.”

“I want,” says Robbe clearly, tugging at Sander’s furiously twitching cock just to let it slap thick and firm back against his stomach, “to sit down on it.”

Obediently Sander coats his fingers, first with Robbe’s slickness and then his own, rubbing his dick against Robbe’s firmly enough to make them both clench their jaws but not so much as to bring either of them closer to orgasm, all the while keeping his eyes trained on Robbe’s face. When he’s satisfied with his work he bridges one eyebrow, holds his hand up, and Robbe sits back, spreads his legs, gives that insolent half-smirk that wrecks Sander from the inside. The second Sander presses a fingertip to the cleft between Robbe’s thighs he pulls in a breath, whimpers.

“ _Ijzermans_ ,” breathes Sander, the reverence in his voice transforming Robbe’s name into a hymn as he caresses that most intimate of places on his lovely pantherlike body. “You’re — ”

“ — dying,” says Robbe, wriggling down to chase Sander’s fingers. “Sander, please.”

“Yeah?” Sander presses forward, marginal, so only the very tip of his index finger slides inside Robbe’s body. Every bit of him remembers what it feels like to be encompassed by that clenching heat and Sander has to take one very large and very placating breath to steel himself against the urge to pull Robbe on top of him right then, let him ease down until every burning inch of Sander’s cock is buried within him.

Robbe sees it on his face, that loud wild _want_. Leans forward to kiss him and Sander bites at the fullness of his bottom lip as he pushes his finger all the way forward, smiling when Robbe squeaks aloud. Gentle, torturous for them both, Sander spreads Robbe open with first one finger, then two, then at last three, withdrawing occasionally so he can get his fingers slick again. They’re both so wet it’s _indecent_ , the skin around Robbe’s entrance shining with it, Sander’s cock glossy and glistening and pearled at the tip, and he’s finger-fucking Robbe with such minimal resistance he’s starting to wonder dazedly if they’re even going to _need_ any other form of lube. Robbe’s pliant, boneless, thighs split wide like a gymnast’s as he supports his weight back on his palms, and when Sander curls his fingertips against Robbe’s prostrate he gives a rumbling whine that drives Sander to frenzy. He surges forward so he can lick up Robbe’s exposed throat, suck mercilessly on the sensitive skin around his piercing, and Robbe with his expression all ecstasy lets him go to town for half a moment before he shoves Sander back against the pillows, straddles him, feral at the eyes. Sander is losing his mind even before Robbe rises to his knees, begins sliding the head of Sander’s cock around his warm puckering entrance. His eyes as he pins Sander in place with a gaze are positively immoral.

Sander’s trembling, chest heaving as he hauls in breath after shaky breath, he feels like a stallion caged behind the starting gate of a derby race. Adrenaline crashing through him like a typhoon, every nerve ending concentrated between his thighs, the downward blood flow making him woozy as he clamps both fists around anything he can grab, Robbe’s hip, a thick hank of comforter. Robbe’s testing him, he knows, payback for those countless times he allowed Robbe to crawl his way to the precipice of orgasm with just the slick repetitive lap of his tongue, and _oh_ how good the anticipation but _oh_ how he’s nearly incoherent from need. Precum from Robbe’s cock drips steadily onto Sander’s stomach and Sander thinks he could maybe come just from the stimulation of his cockhead teasing the heat of Robbe’s hole.

“Do you need,” spits Sander, voice unsteady, “more?”

Robbe knows what he means. With his thighs still clenched around Sander’s waist he leans over to the bedside table, rakes in the drawer for a bottle of proper lube, thumbs it open so he’s got enough on his palm before he’s even settled back again. Fists up around Sander’s cock and slips two of his own fingers inside himself, eyes shut briefly as his breath glitches, and Sander is delirious for the sight of him. He grabs for Robbe’s hips, trying to pull him down, but Robbe resists, grinning as he tosses the bottle aside.

“No.”

Sander _groans._ “ _Robbe._ ”

Robbe bends down, kisses him roughly, repeats himself on a whisper.

“ _No_.”

And so the slow, deliberate back and forth continues; just when Sander thinks maybe, maybe this time Robbe will let him, he draws away, letting Sander’s cock spring up against his belly as he slides away. Sander is a bundle of nerves, useless, pupils gigantic and space-black as he leans back and takes it because what else can he do but _wait._ It’s getting to Robbe too, he can see how badly Robbe wants it in rough slices and angles across his face, the muscles in his jaw jolting as he leashes his instinct; when he grips a fist around his own cock and jerks himself once, slowly, Sander lets his head flop back, chokes out a strangled noise of frustration.

“ _Robbe_.”

“ _Sander_.” Robbe’s voice is low, purring. “What do you want?”

“For you to let me put my cock in you,” spits Sander, ferocious, beyond being demure, “right the fuck now.”

Robbe rocks forward, licks the shell of Sander’s ear.

“Now?”

Sander shudders, distracted; he’s about to reply with some forceful affirmative when Robbe reaches between them, angles Sander’s cock so it’s standing perfectly straight against him, and pushes his hips down.

Even being allowed one inch after such a long period of denial makes stars combust around the frame of Sander’s vision; he’s electric, nerve endings singing as he freezes in place, destroyed. Robbe feels like butter around him, taut and silken and warm, and as he sinks down slow, slow, slow until he’s taken every inch, sitting flush atop Sander’s waist, he shuts his lovely ochre eyes and utters the most beautiful sound Sander has ever heard.

“God,” babbles Sander, ended, afire everywhere. “Fuck, Jesus, Robbe, _fuck.”_

Robbe exhales hard, eyelids fluttering as he situates, and with every minuscule rock of his hips he can feel Sander pulsing within him. “ _Yes._ Sander, you — ”

He’s shy now, but as Sander reaches up and runs a thumb along his cheekbone, dopey smile opening his face like the sky after a storm, he remembers that he’s talking to the person who loves him most in the whole entire world and he can say any, any, anything.

“I can feel you in my _stomach_.”

Sander moans out loud for that, this wanton daring side of Robbe is new and fascinating to him and he’s in love.

“If this is you sitting down on it,” he says, and Robbe grins, “I wanna do this all the time.”

Robbe leans down, kisses him tenderly on the mouth, and as Sander opens him up to taste he starts to move. Timid at first, then with more and more assurance; Sander’s hands come up to circle his hips and they’re both mewling into the kiss, losing themselves to the sensation of coming together after such a grueling period of time apart. Usually Robbe lets Sander take control; he’s more than content to let Sander place Robbe’s ankles on his shoulders, move with him until they’ve found delirium, pound him ruthlessly against the shower wall, but tonight he finds power in taking the lead. Sander beneath him is loose, blissed-out, kiss-fat lips open as he watches the way Robbe’s hips roll for him, and when he swears against Robbe’s ear the ruinous timbre to his voice is everything. It’s not long before Robbe’s found that perfect angle, the one that lets him take Sander to the hilt with every up-down motion, Sander’s cockhead swiping against his sweet spot until he’s mewling.

“Perfect, Sander,” he gasps out loud, all sensation, and Sander kisses his shoulder, happiness beaming even through the haze on his face. He wraps his hand around Robbe’s cock, thumb over the head like Robbe loves, and Robbe loses his ability to speak.

“Yes,” says Sander, knowing from his expression, from the twitch of his abdomen how near he is. “ _Yes,_ Robbe — “

But if there was more to that sentence it’s lost forever because that’s the exact moment Robbe chooses to reduce the frenetic pace of his hips and clench himself hard around Sander’s cock.

Powerless, the motion of his hand around Robbe’s cock stuttering, Sander whines; around him Robbe is deliberately tightening and relaxing his muscles so he’s even more snug than usual, and Sander can’t take it, his instinct is to flip Robbe over and fuck him into the mattress until they’re both screaming but he quells it. Robbe in charge is _perfect_ and torturous and —

“So tight,” gasps Sander, senseless. “ _So_ fucking tight, _Jesus_ , Robbe.”

Robbe chuckles hot like he knows, and Sander knows he _does_ , goes wild for the understanding, bucks his hips up to match Robbe’s pace and once more Robbe draws him in with that tensing of his muscles and that's all it takes for Sander to explode, Robbe’s fingers held between his teeth to mute the instinctual volume of his cry, shuddering as his vision goes temporarily starry all over. Robbe keeps him in place, still moving, but gentler now so Sander doesn’t get overwhelmed, and Sander’s murmuring _sorry, sorry, that was so fast_ and Robbe shuts him up with a kiss, hand at Sander’s wrist where he’s closer and closer to bringing Robbe to climax. Robbe can feel Sander’s warm orgasm inside of him, his face flawless and open as he watches Robbe move, and he grinds back once, twice, as Sander smooths his thumb over Robbe’s slit and then he is sobbing out a low uneven cry, thick milky fluid painting Sander’s belly, the best he’s felt since quarantine began. Sander sits up, rumbling _yes baby yes Robbe come for me_ before he kisses him through it, free hand threading in Robbe’s overlong hair, smiling as Robbe pants Sander's name helplessly against his mouth.

Afterward they hold each other’s faces, giddy, nuzzling foreheads as they descend at their leisure back down to Earth. Robbe says, smirking,

“It wasn’t that fast. I wouldn’t blame you if it was, though.”

Sander snorts, shocked. “Wow. My favorite thing about you is your humility, Ijzermans.” He nudges the freckle-spattered tip of Robbe’s nose with his own. “I mean, you’re right, though, you are incredible in bed.”

Robbe laughs out loud. “No, like...it’s been such a long time since we even _kissed_. I’m surprised I lasted two minutes.”

“Mmmm.” Sander plants a little smack of a kiss on his lips. “Best two minutes of your life.”

“And yours.”

“No doubt,” says Sander comfortably, and Robbe rolls off him with a happy sigh, still surfing that matchless orgasm high.

“Next time,” he says, devious, “we can try your idea.”

Sander puffs out a dejected breath, shoulders slumping. “That’ll be so long from now.”

“Will it? I was thinking tomorrow morning,” says Robbe, tracing a soft sure hand down Sander’s back, the ladder of his spine. “Unless you had other plans.”

Sander looks sideways at him, surprised. “You want me to come back tomorrow?”

“ _Sander_ ,” says Robbe, laughing, “did you really think I was gonna let you _leave_ tonight? You’re staying, okay? No arguments.”

Warm, Sander flushes; he’d shoved his meds and a change of clothes in his backpack just in case but felt he’d been optimistic to do so. By the time he’d made it to Robbe’s street that quiet traitorous part of him had half managed to convince him that Robbe would turn him away, angry that he’d broken curfew to come over. “You want me to stay? Really?”

Robbe sits up, kisses the side of his neck, nuzzling him. “Sander, of course I want you to stay. I’m so happy you’re here. I haven’t been this happy since quarantine began. I didn’t think I’d see you for _weeks,_ I - I was miserable.”

Sander could cry; Robbe always, always knows exactly what to say, how to reassure him, bring him back to their simple reality. “What about your mama?”

Robbe grins. “Don’t worry about her. I haven’t shut up about how much I miss you for days. She’ll be glad to talk about something else for a change."

So Sander stays, and as they always do, they take it minute by minute. With haste they clean up in the shower, curl cozily together under Robbe’s blankets, fall slowly asleep talking of everything and nothing. And when they awaken in the morning, tangled drowsy in the weak Saturday morning sunlight, it’s to a plate of croissants and a note from Robbe’s mother reading

_welcome, Sander. I’m glad you’re here. x_

on Robbe’s desk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's hilarious is the fact that I was 3/4 of the way through writing this and they were literally hinting vaguely at this theme during that Sobbe video call today. GEEEEEEZ hahaha I love wtFock. 
> 
> If y'all need some holy water after this I've got a stockpile over on [my Tumblr](https://luludemauryyy.tumblr.com/)


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